The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [61]
“I’m not making a big deal,” Noreen said. “I just think it’s odd. I mean, Oliver’s supposed to be the mastermind behind a three-hundred-million-dollar pie swipe—but according to what you just read me, he’s writing monthly checks to cover mom’s hospital bills and paying almost half her mortgage.”
“Noreen, just because someone smiles at you, doesn’t mean they won’t shove a knife in your back. I’ve seen it fifty times before—welcome to your motive. Our boy Oliver spends four years at the bank thinking he’s going to be a bigshot, then wakes up one day and realizes all he has to show for it is a stack of bills and a tan from the fluorescent lights. Then, to make things worse, his brother comes in and finds out he’s in the same trap. The two of them have a particularly bad day… there’s a moment of opportunity… and voilà… the dish runs away with the spoon.”
“Yeah… no… I guess,” Noreen added, anxious to get back on track. “What about the girlfriend? See anything with a phone number on it?”
“Forget digits—ready for the full address?” Flipping through the recycling bin, Joey quickly pulled out all the magazines. Business Week… Forbes… SmartMoney… “Here we go,” she said, grabbing a People magazine and going straight for the subscription label. “Beth Manning. 201 East 87th Street, Apartment 23H. When the girlfriends come over, they always bring something to read.”
“That’s great—you’re a genius,” Noreen said sarcastically. “Now can you please get out of there before the Service comes in and whips your ass?”
“Actually, speaking of which…”Tossing the magazine back into the bin, Joey ran toward the bathroom and jerked open the medicine cabinet. Toothpaste… razor… shaving cream… deodorant… nothing special. In the trash was a crumpled-up white plastic bag with the words “Barney’s Pharmacy” written in black letters. “Noreen, the place is called Barney’s Pharmacy—we want a list of outstanding prescriptions for Oliver and his girlfriend.”
“Fine. Can we go now?”
Moving back to the main room, Joey noticed a black laminate picture frame on top of the kitchen table. In the photo, two little boys—dressed exactly the same in tight-fitting red turtlenecks—were sitting on an oversized sofa, their feet dangling over the cushions. Oliver looked about six; Charlie looked two. Both were reading books… but as Joey looked closer… she realized Charlie’s book was upside down.
“Joey, this isn’t funny anymore,” Noreen barked through the earpiece. “If they catch you breaking and entering…”
Joey couldn’t help but nod at the challenge. Making a beeline for the TV, she reached around to the back of it, snared the electrical cord, and traced it down toward the wall socket. If the house was as old as she thought…
“What’re you doing?” Noreen begged.
“Just a little electrical work,” Joey teased. At the end of the cord, she saw the orange adapter that, once attached to the three-pronged TV plug, let it fit into the two-pronged wall socket. You gotta love old houses, she thought as she crouched down next to the outlet. Dragging her purse next to her, she again went for the small zipper case. Inside was an almost identical orange two-pronged adapter.
Unlike the battery-operated transmitter she’d left in Lapidus’s office, this one was specially made for long-term use. Looks like a plug and acts like a plug, but transmits a solid four miles in residential neighborhoods. No one looks at it, no one questions it—and the best part is—as long as it’s plugged in, it has an endless supply of juice.
“Are you done yet?” Noreen pleaded.
“Done?” Joey asked, yanking the plug from the wall. “I’m just getting started.”
* * * *
“Can you get it or not?” Gallo asked, standing over Andrew Nguyen’s desk.
“Take it easy,” Nguyen shot back. A lean, but muscular Asian man prematurely graying at the temples, Andrew Nguyen was in his fifth year at the United States Attorney’s Office. In that time, he’d learned